


my boy

by fungoidz



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Inner Dialogue, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Mike Hanlon is a Good Friend, Semi-Canon Compliant, Slurs, Stan is still dead, Weird Pining, because it wouldn't be a richie fanfiction without it, bill tries so so hard, implied alcoholism, lack of hygiene on richie's part, maybe the real pennywise was the internalized homophobia we found along the way, scrap canon for parts and run
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 12:22:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20742134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fungoidz/pseuds/fungoidz
Summary: In which Richie Tozier does what he does best; runs his big mouth, makes rude jokes, and represses his sexuality like it's still the eighties.





	1. we don't see each other much

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't done a multichaptered fic in years and i'm going to be playing fast and loose with canon events. mainly just using this as a practice to get better at writing richie/eddie banter and as an extended richie character study, and i'm not entirely sure if i'll finish it (or how i'll finish it) because i'm probably going to have to re-watch chapter two or something. also, this is more of a bookverse-movieverse mashup when it comes to certain things because god they did my man mike dirty in chapter 2. also, yeah, most of my richie/eddie inspiration comes from listening to the 2018 rerecording of Twin Fantasy on repeat.

Seeing Eddie feels like a punch in the gut.  


Frankly, the past couple of days have felt like getting punched in the gut repeatedly. His whole unremembered and then remembered childhood, It’s back, Stan’s dead, Stan’s dead because he offed himself because It’s back, and so he has to kill a clown. Again.  


And now Eddie.

The memories didn’t all come back at once. Sure, the general outline was there, but the actual details came trickling in over the past 24 hours. Things they did together, running around town unsupervised, hanging out in the clubhouse, building a dam in the woods, throwing pebbles at one another, going swimming. The way Bev’s hair curled around her face and how she always had a cigarette, the funny rhythm Bill’s stutter had when he talked to himself, how Ben would always chip in a few dollars so they could buy the new issue of Mad Magazine and read it together, Stan and his birds and his sharp laugh, and Eddie. Eddie, Eds, Eddie Spaghetti, the hypochondriac little freak with his fanny packs and his inhaler and his dirty mouth and the sweetest most beautiful smile that Richie had ever seen in all his twelve years of being alive.  


He looks different but the same. Beige polo, hair combed meticulously, big brown eyes and expression like he wasn’t quite sure if Richie was real or not. He starts heading over before he can think of what he’s going to say. What  _ is _ he going to say to him? “Hey, man, nice to see you, you single? How’s life been treating you? By the way, I’m pretty sure I’m still in love with you. Because, y’know, I’ve been in love with you for like thirty years.” Absolutely not. Those are dangerous thoughts. Even more dangerous now that he’s staring Eddie dead in the eyes, five feet away from him.

So Richie does what he does best. Well, what he does best emotionally. He takes all those feelings, gathers them up into a ball, pushes them down down down as far as they can go, and then starts thinking about what kind of new material he has for jokes about fucking Eddie’s mother.

“Ew, Tozier, you reek. What the hell?” Eddie’s voice breaks him out of his reverie. It’s less high pitched than he remembers, which is.. Duh, he’s a forty year old man, of course he doesn’t have a little boy voice anymore, and it’s all he can do not to go into heart palpitations right then and there.   


“Is that any way to greet me, Eddie? I haven’t seen you in eighty years and the first thing you do is insult me because of my choice in cologne?”

“That’s not cologne, idiot. You smell like vomit and airplanes.” Eddie had a point. Richie had been so busy with the whole “Pennywise the Dancing Bastard is alive and well in Derry and we have to get his ass” thing that changing his clothes had been thrown to the wayside, vomit backsplash be damned.  


“Yeah, it’s by Dior and it’s new. They call it ‘Eau De La Madam Kaspbrak.’” He shoved his wrist towards Eddie’s face, smirking when he shrank away like Richie had the plague.  


“That’s fucking  _ disgusting _ , god, get your arm away from me! Your skin is dry as shit too, don’t you know the air on planes sucks the moisture out of you? Invest in some  _ lotion _ .” He pauses and straightens himself out, takes a moment to adjust the silverware in front of him. Of course a Chinese restaurant in Derry would have silverware. “It’s good to see you. I’m not giving you a hug until you take a shower though.” Richie snorts, picks at a speck of something on his shirt and resists the urge to wipe it on him.

“Yeah, whatever. I’d say I missed you but I just remembered you existed like, eight minutes ago, so that would be a lie.”  


“Don’t bullshit me. You lie, like, every other sentence.” Again, not wrong. When did he start mentally conceding with Eddie anyways?  _ Probably when you started wanting to take him to fucking Venice and row him around in a gondola you faggot _ whispers a nasty little voice in the back of his head.  


“About what, Eds? I’ll have you know that everything I’ve ever said about your mother was God’s honest truth. I’m basically legally your stepdad at this point, what with how I was plowing your mother every night like I was Mike and she was the fertile fields of Derry, Maine.”

Before Eddie can spit out whatever sort of reply he’s concocted, they both practically jump out of their seats when somebody puts their hand on Richie’s shoulder. The first thing he thinks is “the clown is in the restaurant and he’s out for blood,” the second thing he thinks is “I don’t want to die in Jade of the Orient, please, god,” and the third thing he thinks is that Mike really needs to be more careful with being touchy feely when there’s a rabid carnival creep on the loose. Then he’s out of his chair and wrapping him in a bear hug that’s quickly reciprocated. Mike pulls away after a few seconds, holding Richie at arms length.  


“Have you showered today?”  


“Absolutely not. I’m planning on my man musk keeping the clown away. Like bear spray!” Mike pulls a face. He looks good. He’s got that ‘just beginning to go grey’ thing going on, starting elegantly at his temples, and his eyes are bright and familiar even as he makes a noise of distaste.

“I’d stop touching him if I were you. He’s probably carrying some sort of disease,” says Eddie. He’s standing up now, but he doesn’t go in for a hug immediately. He sticks out his hand then hesitates, but before he can make a decision Mike’s already initiated the hug for him. He stiffens visibly, then relaxes after a couple of seconds. “I’m sorry I was late, there was.. I had some things I had to get done,” Mike responds, almost bashfully. Like he’s grown shy in their absence.  


Richie realizes he’s smiling so much his cheeks hurt. Despite the situation, despite the grief and misery of everything, despite the fact he’s back in Derry, he’s absolutely elated to see Mike. To see Eddie. And hopefully the three B’s too. His friends. His real, actual friends.  _ And what about Stan, _ hisses that little voice,  _ your bestest friend? Or does he not matter anymore?  _ That’s enough to dampen the mood. He swallows, licks his dry lips, and forces a smile.

“Hey, don’t worry about it Mike. I know fucking all the single moms in town is time consuming.”  


Mike pulls out a seat for himself and gives Richie a look. “Still living up to the Trashmouth moniker, huh?”  


“You know it, baby. I didn’t get famous for my good looks alone.” Eddie laughs, barks out “What good looks?” and something fire-hot and shameful blooms in Richie’s chest.

If the clown doesn’t kill him, this will.


	2. it'll take some time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have never written bill before in my whole life so i'd like to apologize in advance.

Dinner went.. Well, dinner went. It happened. It’s been years since euphoria and mortal dread have been so closely intertwined for him. It’s a lot of emotions to take in, especially for somebody who’s mainly been running off of crushing loneliness and an endless need for validation for the past twenty or so years. Seeing his friends, all grown up and successful and really really attractive, is a real shock to the system.  


And Eddie.

Why does he have to fucking fixate? Why does he have to be a fucking freak about it? He handled this well enough when he was a kid.  _ No you didn’t you idiot _ , says that voice, dripping with disdain.  _ You were just as much of a queer then as you are now and you know it and they probably know it too. They’re too polite to say it but they can smell it on you just like they can smell that vomit and those three airplane vodka sodas you drank. If they hadn’t realized then, they’ll realize now. _

Richie smacks himself, which probably would look ridiculous to a bystander if he weren’t safely ensconced in his dark room at the townhouse. Now isn’t the time for this shit. Logically, he knows that even if they knew it wouldn't be a problem. His friends are good people. They’d understand. Stan understood.

He remembers telling him, crying in front of him for the first time for reasons unrelated to the creeping evil that lived in the sewers, fucking sobbing like a baby, and Stan patting his back and saying gently that it was  _ okay, Richie, it’s okay. Nothing’s different, nothing’s changed. You’re still Richie _ . Like that was supposed to make him feel better. He was Richie then and he’s Richie now and Stan is six feet under and took that secret with him.  


And then, like his brain is some sort of evil yo-yo that just keeps swinging back to where it started, there’s Eddie. Nothing to make you feel like you’re thirteen again like realizing your childhood crush turned into a full blown romantic obsession while you were repressing your memories. Every time he made him laugh, every fucking insult he slung back at him, it was like he was hooked up to a direct IV drip of nothing but hot, sticky guilt. Glueing his throat shut like a blood clot, making his palms sweat.  _ Disgusting,  _ offers his brain, sounding like Eddie. “Thanks,” he mutters back, and falls face-first onto the bed. It’s not too uncomfortable, the sheets and comforter are stiff in the way that hotel linens often are, but not the worst ever. The fabric is cool and pleasant against his face.

He should probably shower before he goes to bed. His hair feels gross and oily when he runs his hands through it. Maybe he’ll try and get that hug Eddie promised him in the morning, ignoring all the other connotations his brain is trying to give that. Fuck his brain. It was like it was trying to give him whiplash. First it’s all  _ you’re a horrible friend and he’ll never feel the same way _ , which, yeah, fair enough seeing as Kaspbrak is a married man now, but then he zones out for a minute and it supplies him with a rerun of all the times Richie made him laugh.  


Sure, he won’t ever feel the same way, but isn’t it enough that they’re connected? Even after all this time, after forgetting him, they fell into the old routine so fast. Richie picks on Eddie, Eddie snaps back at him, rinse and repeat. No, of course it isn’t enough. He can’t be happy having a fulfilling friendship with the person he likes, no. Not good enough for old Richie Tozier. It’s all or nothing. He needs to stop this train of thought. Get occupied, do something.  


He groans, rolls over and considers the bathroom door. The shower isn’t gonna be great, and who knows what the fuck is in Derry’s water supply, but if he uses enough shampoo he probably won’t catch anything. Catch anything? When has he ever given a shit about that? He preemptively smacks himself before that train of thought can reach its destination and hauls himself off the bed, joints popping uncomfortably. Man, how are they going to kill It? He’s not all young and spry like he was when he was twelve. His body’s falling apart, he can’t get hard anymore and his hairline has decided to go fuck itself. Not exactly the Richie who took down an actual child-eating monster.  


The shower is less gross than he thought it might be. The water pressure is shit, though, and when he accidentally gets some in his mouth mid-shampoo he almost gags. It puts California water to shame, all bitter minerals. Or maybe it’s the soap. It’s probably just the soap. Derry water can’t be that bad, right? It’s filtered. He’s definitely not showering with bits of dead kid floating around in there. Richie wonders, idly, if Eddie is going to be able to do enough mental gymnastics to pull off a shower himself. Well, if it was good enough for them back when they were kids, it’ll be fine now. The water probably doesn’t even come from Derry, they probably pipe it in from some other town, like Bangor.  


He’s part-ways through drying off when somebody knocks on his door. Richie considers at least throwing on some pants, but if it’s important enough for whoever it is to bug him at, what, 11 PM, then they’re going to have to deal with him in a towel and nothing else.  


His glasses are off too, so looking through the peephole is pretty useless. It isn’t Bev or Mike, he can tell that much, but all bets are off otherwise, so he cracks the door and calls out “Tozier Residence, who is it?”

“H-Hey, Rich.” Ah, Bill. Just the man he wanted to see. Not really, but at least it wasn’t Eddie. He’s not drunk enough to deal with so much as the idea of Kaspbrak seeing him shirtless, much less the reality of it.  


“Big Bill! How’s it slapping?” He swings the door open and squints his eyes enough to make out the look of amusement that passes over his friends face. Bill isn’t really as sexy as Ben or Bev ( _ or Eddie, right, _ says that little voice, but Richie pointedly ignores it because now is definitely not the time) but he’s still, you know. Good looking. Hell, he married an actress. He just looks a little bit too much like he writes novels to really be added to his spank bank.  


“Would it k-kill you to p-puh-put on some clothes?” Bill steps into his room uninvited, and if he weren’t one of his childhood best friends that would probably be enough to make Richie uncomfortable. “B-but I’m fine. T-That’s actually wh-whuh-why I’m here.” Even with the stutter, he’s as confident as ever. He wonders if that’s just how he is naturally, or if being back in Derry brought that back for him. Richie certainly feels like he’s thirteen again, just not in a good way. Vulnerable and weird looking and completely out of control of his own life.

“Sorry, Billy boy, but if you can’t handle all of this, you’d be better getting the fuck out of Derry.” He hip-thrusts for emphasis, which makes the towel he’s wrapped around his waist slip dangerously. Bill laughs and covers his eyes, which makes it worth it. “Gimme a second though, I’ll put on something nice for you.”

‘Something nice’ is a t-shirt and some boxers, along with his glasses, which are pretty filthy. Bill seems to have made himself pretty much at home, lounging on the stiff looking chair that’s in the corner of his room. They could probably have whatever this conversation is going to be somewhere else, even if it’s kind of late, but Richie isn’t complaining.

“I just w-wanted to ask.. Uh, how are y-yuh-you?” Weird question. There’s a tone there that he can’t quite place, but it’s obviously in good faith. Bill is a good friend. Sure, they haven’t actually been  _ friends _ in years, but trauma bonding is a hell of a thing and that connection is still there. Of course it’s still there. That’s why he’s here. Richie scratches his palm, nail catching on the jagged skin around the scar.

“I’m peachy-keen, aside from the whole killer clown on the loose business. Why do you ask?” Bill raises his eyebrows. “Okay, okay, yeah, I could be better, but it’s good to see you guys again! The gang’s back together!”  


“W-wuh-what about.. Stan..? I mean.. He w-was close to all of us, but..” Richie feels his throat close up a little. He’s been trying, really really trying, not to think about it. And he’s been doing pretty okay with that, all things considered.

“Listen, Bill, I get that you’re trying to keep morale high, but reminding me that Stan offed himself because he couldn’t handle our little highschool reunion isn’t helping.” Bill winces, raises his hand and starts to say something but Richie cuts him off. “Don’t worry about it, man. I know..” He sighs, runs his hands through his wet hair, “it’s a lot. All of this is a hell of a lot.”

“I-I.. W-We’re all here f-for you, Richie. All of u-uh-us.” Bill pats him on the back hesitantly and Richie laughs. It comes out wrong, though, pops in the middle and it’s more of a sob than anything else. He wipes his eyes, pushes it back down. “Bill, I love you, but nobody’s here for  _ me _ . We’re here for It.”  


“S-spuh-speak for yourself, R-Richie, I’m here f-for the beautiful Derry w-weather!” Good old Bill. Not really one for jokes, but god knows he’s trying, and Richie reaches over and squeezes him.

“Yeah, like I’m gonna believe that. I know you’re really here to try and get in Bev’s panties again. Not that you’re gonna have any luck with that, I mean, jesus, have you seen Ben? He looks like he should be on the cover of GQ!” The Beverly comment obviously wasn’t Bill’s favorite, judging from his expression, but that’s what he gets for leaving it open. He should know that Richie isn’t going to pull any punches just because he’s a famous writer or whatever now.

“B-Ben looks good,” Bill mumbles.  


“Oh, am I mistaken? Do you wanna get into his skivvies now too?” That gets him a gentle smack on the shoulder and a “b-b-beep beep, assh-hole” for his troubles. They sit there in silence for a few minutes before Richie yawns and Bill finally stands.  


“I-It’s late. I.. I-I gotta call Audra, l-luh-let her know how I’m doing. T-Think about stuff.” Richie salutes him and goes over to open the door with an exaggerated bow. “Well, don’t let ole Trashmouth keep you from having phone sex with your wife, Bill! Tell her I said hi, if you know what I mean.”  


“B-Beep  _ beep _ , Richie.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. See you in the morning, my man.”  


Now that he’s alone, Richie starts looking for the thermostat. He likes to keep it cold, can’t sleep if it’s above seventy, and whoever’s choosing the ambient temperature for the townhouse thought that a nice toasty eighty degrees is perfect. He’s a man, not a fucking iguana.   


Cranking it down to sixty five doesn’t seem to be doing anything in the short term, so he might as well get ready for bed. He had the forethought to stow a bottle of rum in his luggage, and there’s some little paper cups under the sink in the bathroom that are probably for rinsing out your mouth, so he’ll take a little bit of his sleepy-time drink and be good.

It’s nasty, cheap stuff that he bought during a layover in Portland, but it gets the job done. He’s still a little buzzed from having more than a couple drinks at Jade of the Orient, but the shower sobered him up more than he’d like.  


_ What kind of person can’t go to bed sober, Richie? Afraid of having nightmares? Or is it something else?  
_

That little voice is really starting to annoy him. It’s right most of the time, but it seems like it’s been doing double duty since he passed Derry city limits. Hell, he’s kept the self loathing thing in check pretty well for the past decade or so, but.. Both Richie and his subconscious know why it’s back. All those memories.

_ Stan _ .

Stan’s dead. That’s such a weird fucking thought. Out of all of them, Stan’s the one who’s dead. At least it was of his own volition. At least he got to  _ choose _ . He always did like being in control. He wasn’t really a leader, but he was the man with the plan, and.. God. God, does he miss him. It’s a big gaping hole he can’t stop prodding at, like he’s missing a tooth. No more Stan. He remembers how one time they spent the night at the farm with Mike, and Richie spent  _ hours _ trying to catch the chickens and once he did, he ran at Stan with it. “Isn’t this a golden eagle, Stanley?” He’d frowned and told him that, no, idiot, he was holding a chicken that had also just shat on his shoe. Then Eddie had listed off all the diseases you can get from barnyard poultry, and then they had all laughed and watched the sunset together and they were all  _ happy _ .  


The rum burns going down, but once he’s got a third of the bottle in him he feels good enough to turn the lights off and crawl into bed. Maybe he’ll wake up in his condo back in California. Maybe this is all just a bad dream, or a really intense trip.

Of course it isn't, though. He’s not going to get that lucky this time.  _ It’s _ waiting for him down there in the dark, drooling and jibbering and making balloon animals or whatever, and it’s not going to let him go this time.

It never let him go to begin with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, comments, concerns, criticisms, suggestions, telling me i'm butchering canon, all of these are appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> comments are really appreciated, especially criticisms or suggestions for other fanfiction! i love you guys!


End file.
